The Disappearing Act
by slightlysmall
Summary: Being Muggle-born was inconvenient. All these years of just wishing he could disappear - and he could? Destination, determination, deliberation. He could manage that. And he did. Mundungus Fletcher was brilliant at disappearing.


**A/N: Written for the Snakes and Ladders challenge. My first attempt at anyone like Mundungus. As far as I can tell, we have no background for his history, so I made him Muggle-born for my own sake.**

The only spell he really could master was Disapparation. The first six years of school were a blur now, a mix of "Mundungus, focus!" "If you just _tried _a little harder..." "Fletcher, are you even paying attention?" So he tried. He'd focus the best he could on the words his professors were saying, but then he would notice something - a glint of sunlight off the window, perhaps, a Sickle dropped from someone's pocket - and his attention would be gone. How he managed to scrape any O.W.L.s. at all was beyond him.

When he first learned that they would be taking Apparation tests once they were of age, he was as nervous as he had been for any other class. Twitching fingers, eyes that couldn't stay still, bow legs jittering about. But for once, as the instructor began to speak, his attention wasn't diverted at all. Being Muggle-born was inconvenient. After all these years of just wishing he could disappear - and he could? _Destination, determination, deliberation. _He could manage that.

He was the first to learn it. The first to hear the praise, the shout going across the Great Hall. "Look! Fletcher's done it!" He smiled. He was proud. For the first time in his life, he had done something right. Mundungus Fletcher was brilliant at disappearing.

It wasn't surprising, really. He'd done it a lot as a child. A crowded apartment in London, the only magical child with four other siblings, he was almost always managed to hide from his siblings when they found something of theirs in his room. It was a necessity. When he didn't, they were sure to confront him.

"_I didn't put it there! I didn't! Mum!" he shouted, honestly confused._

"_Liar! I saw you looking at it yesterday! You tried to trade me your sandwich for it!"_

"_Yeah, but I didn't do it!" __He planned to, certainly, but he hadn't. Not yet._

"_What is it kids?" his mum would ask, exhausted, their baby sister crying on her hip. "I don't have time for your stupid games, Mundungus. Give back whatever you stole and get on with it."_

But confrontations with his siblings were rare, and his mum never double-checked that anything was returned. There were plenty of places in the concrete complex to hide, and none of them were too grimy to keep him away. In fact, the grimier, the better, as far as he was concerned. No one would look for him in places they wanted to stay out of.

His father had given him the itch. As the oldest, it was him his father would turn to, smelling of beer, to show off the treasures he had collected that day. His mum disapproved, in theory at least, until the pounds he managed to scrape bought them food for the week, or kept the landlord from beating down their door again. She didn't appreciate his skill the way Mundungus did.

"_Naive little buggers, people are. Took it right under their noses."_

"_Brilliant! Can I have a look?"_

"'_Course not. I've seen yer sticky little fingers. Getcher own, lad."_

And that he did.

It was an art really, knowing where the best things were, the best people to ask for materials, and then _crack! _he would disappear to wherever the money was to be had. Cauldrons, jewelry, tapestries... he wasn't particular. Muggle or magical, the buyer could be whomever was willing to pay the most. Mundungus prided himself on being the only bloke he knew capable of converting pounds to Galleons and back.

Now, he sat in front of a cabinet in the House of Black, no one there to bother him as he stuffed priceless heirloom after priceless heirloom into his pockets. A terrible cliche, he thought, to call something priceless; everything had a price to someone. He intended to get the best one. He heard shuffling near the front door. His pockets were heavy and jingled as he walked. Kreacher was coming closer. But _crack! _he was in Hogsmeade, outside the dodgy pub that Aberforth ran, a pile of trinkets in his hand. A few minutes of formalities later, and his pockets were filled not with the shining treasures of Sirius Black, now deceased, but his hard-earned payment of gold.


End file.
